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Summary
Their cigarette was propped between their fingers, which wore a pair of leather gloves—ones that he had become very familiar with—specifically their smooth touch against his skin and the taste in his mouth. Their shirt was slightly rumpled and untucked, the tie loosened and collar unbuttoned as they cocked their hip and took another drag.
He widened his eyes ever so slightly, hoping his eagerness for whatever they had planned was conveyed. His puppy dog eyes, as Gerard liked to say.
They didn’t react. Except to narrow their own stare, and purse their lips.
Then they clicked their tongue. “You need a haircut, mutt. We don’t need neighbors to get the wrong idea about how I take care of you.”
Or the one inspired by Frank Iero for LLTBP in Liverpool, specifically those luscious locks and curls.